Chapter 8
Collins
She strolled over, slow, and every head in the room turned.
The black mini dress hugged her curves perfectly, the sash over her shoulder marking her as a bride—bright against the dark fabric.
My heart started pounding before I even understood why, and my stomach twisted with a heat I hadn’t expected.
Her eyes locked on mine, half playful, half daring, and I realized I couldn’t think clearly. Every rational thought had been shoved aside.
Before I could even react, she settled onto my lap, legs straddling me, so close that her body pressed insistently against me. A slight shift of her weight sent a jolt through me, igniting something primal and reckless I hadn’t felt in years.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I murmured, voice tight as it grazed her earlobe. “You’re getting married.”
“You were staring,” she replied, low and teasing.
“I shouldn’t be,” I replied.
She tilted her head slightly, studying me as though I were the one on display. “Then don’t.”
But she didn’t move away.
My hands moved to her waist instinctively, gripping her gently but firmly, fingers digging in slightly as my mind screamed at me to stop—but restraint felt impossible.
Her fingers toyed with my buttons, slow, daring me, teasing me beyond reason. My voice came out rough, low, almost a growl. “You’re… trouble.”
Her lips met mine lightly at first, testing, then demanding, urgent, claiming.
The world narrowed until nothing existed beyond her—the scent of her hair, the heat of her skin, the pull that made my knees weak.
I drew her closer, deepening the kiss, desperate, reckless, as if memorizing every inch of her in that single fleeting moment. Every nerve in me screamed her name.
She pulled back just enough for me to see her clearly — the sash, the certainty, the accusation in her eyes.
“You looked away first,” she murmured against my mouth.
“I always do.”
“Not this time.”
“If I asked you to leave with me,” she said softly, “would you?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
The word felt like a confession.
And that was when I woke up. My hand moved to my chest. This woman woke something in me.
My heart hammering, sweat slicking my skin, I froze, taking in the reality: my boxers were far too tight, betraying me completely.
My body had acted on every forbidden, impossible desire I’d dreamed of, betraying logic, restraint, everything I knew I should feel.
I need a cold shower.
I swung my legs off the bed, gripping the mattress, every muscle tense. She was a bride. A breathtaking, untouchable bride I might never see again. And here I was, consumed by thoughts of her, desperate, pulled toward her even when I shouldn’t be. This is insane.
I groaned, rubbing my face. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I was burning up inside with desire and guilt, and I couldn't control it. It had been a week since I saw her, and yet she still haunted my mind, vivid, tangible, almost impossible to ignore.
I moved toward the shower to get ready for work, forcing myself to shift focus, forcing my body and mind to release her from the grip she’d taken without even being here.
I really needed that cold water to pull myself together and not lose it.
I stepped inside, letting the shock sink in, and uselessly tried to wash away the memory of the dream, of her, of that urge that wouldn’t stop.
Even with all that water pouring down, her image stuck around.
Everything was back to the grind—long, relentless shifts, administrative piles of paperwork that never seemed to shrink, and patient rounds that demanded every ounce of focus.
I was called into the emergency theatre, my pager shrieking with urgency.
By the time I arrived, I already knew. The patient, a 25-year-old woman who had fallen from a cliff during a hiking trip, had injuries that left no room for hope.
Her vitals were flat; the monitors gave a silent verdict. Time of death: 1:30pm.
Even as I scrubbed in, my mind catalogued every detail clinically, mechanically: fall from height, blunt trauma, intracranial haemorrhage, severe polytrauma. There was no chance. No margin. No miracle.
We are trained to keep our emotions in check, to be the bearers of bad news without flinching. The hardest part isn’t the surgery, it’s facing the family afterward, holding the devastating weight of their loss without letting our own grief leak through.
We must treat our patients as statistics in that moment, as impossible as it feels, because emotions can cloud judgment, slow reactions, and, in surgery, that delay costs lives.
To save the next patient, we must survive this one mentally intact.
To survive in this job, you learn to compartmentalize—feel deeply later, mourn in private, but never during the operation.
I adjusted my gloves, took a deep breath, and pushed aside the human part of me, the part that wanted to cry for a life ended too soon. There would be time for grief, but not now. Not here.
I checked up on bed fourteen, who seemed to be fully recovered. I checked her vitals. Prescribed some meds. She can be discharged tomorrow.
After finishing the rounds, I realized I was out of gloves.
Another mundane task, but necessary. I muttered under my breath as I stepped into the supply closet, a cramped space lined with metal shelves stacked precariously with boxes of gauze, masks, syringes, and other sterile essentials.
Just my luck, this was the one closet that never seemed fully stocked.
I bent down to reach for a box of medium gloves when a muffled giggle made me freeze mid-motion. My head snapped up, and my eyes swept the narrow space.
At the far end, pressed against the back shelves, were Tim and a nurse I immediately recognized.
Tim’s arm was draped possessively around her, and their heads were close, lips moving together in a way that left nothing to the imagination.
For a moment, I could only blink, trying to process what I was seeing.
A hot flush crept up my neck— irritation, disbelief, and a spark of professional indignation.
They didn’t even notice me at first, completely absorbed in themselves. My voice, calm but sharp, cut through the quiet like a scalpel.
“Excuse me.”
They both jumped like startled children. The nurse fumbled to straighten her uniform, cheeks flaming, while Tim’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking toward me with a mixture of guilt and mischief.
I stepped fully into the aisle, my posture rigid. “Supply closet,” I said slowly, letting the words linger. “Really?”
Tim opened his mouth, probably to explain—or joke—but I didn’t wait.
I bent slightly to grab the gloves I needed, keeping my gaze focused firmly on the sterile boxes, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
The room smelled faintly of latex and antiseptic, but the tension was sharper than any scalpel.
As I straightened and turned toward the door, I muttered under my breath, “Boundaries. Professionalism. People actually need to respect these.” My fingers tightened around the glove boxes as I left them behind, but the image, laughter, closeness, casual disregard—lingered far longer than I wanted to admit.
I bumped into Chantelle in the hallway. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied with a small smile. “Lunch? Just you and me. I think we need a break from the chaos.”
“Let me clean up first,” I said, straightening my coat.
A few minutes later, we were seated at a quiet restaurant near the hospital. The smell of grilled food and coffee mingled with the low hum of conversations around us. After placing our orders, she leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. “So… how’s everything?”
“Busy, as usual,” I admitted. “Could use a solid eight hours of sleep. And judging by the trauma cases in the ER lately, I imagine you feel the same.”
She sighed. “Festive season. People are reckless on the roads. I’m expecting we’ll see even more over the next week or two.”
“Alcohol should really be banned this time of year,” I muttered.
She laughed softly. “Right? Anyway… so, what’s your deal?” Her tone carried hope.
“What do you mean?”
“You know… me. One date. That’s all I’m asking. Then we see where it goes.”
I hesitated, carefully choosing my words. “You know how I feel about mixing work with… anything else. Colleagues, patients… anything work-related.”
“Patients, yes, that’s understandable,” she said, leaning back, “but colleagues? Come on. That’s not a crime. We’re on the same level, no power imbalance here.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “But what if it doesn’t work out?”
“So what?” she asked, confused. “We stay professional. Civil. Work continues as normal. No awkwardness. No drama.”
I took a breath. “The attraction is one-sided.”
Her fork paused mid-air. Silence hung between us. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but it was the only way to finally give her a chance to move on from this three-year crush.
“I see,” she said finally, her voice quiet.
“Please don’t get me wrong,” I added, leaning back. “You’re smart, kind, thoughtful… and very pretty. But…”
“But?” she asked, a small edge creeping into her tone. “You’re allergic to women or something? I’ve never seen you glance twice at anyone. Men notice. Patients notice. Even in this job, it’s natural. But you… not once.”
“Maybe I’m just not ready to settle down,” I said evenly. “This job… it’s demanding. A partner wouldn’t survive this chaos. Not unless they live and breathe it like I do.”
“That’s why we would’ve been perfect,” she said softly, almost pleading. “Same hospital, same hours, same dynamic. We’d understand each other.”
“I know,” I replied. “But I’ve made up my mind. I’m not ready for a commitment. Right now, I’m married to my work.”
She exhaled slowly, eyes downcast, and I could see the disappointment settling across her features. I hated that it hurt her, but honesty was the only way to give her a chance to move forward.
The rest of the meal passed in quiet conversation, polite but strained. I kept my focus on the plate in front of me, knowing that this job required emotional restraint.